The sky was clear today. The sky was clear every day. Though Ghirahim had heard stories of heavy black storms that made humans beg for sunlight, he had never seen rain, and he was beginning to realize with an awful sinking sensation that perhaps he never would. He stalked past crowds of his mistress' subjects with his chin held high, but their wonderstruck stares made his skin crawl. A red potion in a crystal bottle was cradled against his chest; he focused on it rather than the spectators, impelled to deliver it while it was still warm.

He squeezed through the tiny gap excusing itself for a door to his mistress' statue, writhing on his belly like one of the humans' noisy, large-eared pets. The stone clipped against his shoulders, but he held the bottle firm. There was a faint stirring against the wall as the goddess turned her head to watch him stand and brush himself off. Hylia's might was dampened by a fevered mist that had no place in such a powerful being's eyes. Smiling, she extended a hand to take the potion. Some of the red liquid dribbled from her lips onto the front of her dress- so very careless of her. So very... human.

Ghirahim stretched out on the cold floor, tucking his hands behind his head and staring languidly at the ceiling. "We should furnish this place," he remarked. "It's dreadfully boring. No matter how skilled that potion maker is, you won't find healing in this drab environment, Your Grace."

" 'This drab environment' is safe. I would not taint its holy atmosphere with material goods from the outside world."

"With all due respect," the spirit began, with a slight curl of his lip, "you drip dark magic every time you so much as twitch a finger. Unless your idea of not tainting your beloved statue is imprisoning us all within its walls, it is far too late for that." Struck with a sudden jolt of passion, he braced his hands against the floor and launched himself to his feet. "Your Grace, you created me to protect your people, did you not? Surely the best way to do so is to keep their idol among them. Let me go to the surface and find a cure for your wounds."

"Ghirahim, you are not strong enough to explore the surface. What if-"

He sprang to interrupt her, surprising even himself: "I am the most powerful weapon in the universe created by the gods of old. You gave me a piece of your own soul."

"Ghirahim-"

"How, then, can I not be strong enough for anything?" His fingers had curled into fists; he forced them to unclench and snapped, scattering glittering illusions of diamonds as he transported himself to perch atop one of the chamber's stone pillars. Now sitting at eye level with Hylia, he flexed one arm, letting sparks dance around his hand. "I am perfect."

"That is enough." Strained though it was, the goddess' voice froze him, snapping his jaw shut. "Your vanity has blinded you to your purpose." Her face twisted in and out of nonsensical expressions, trying to summon anger that she could not possess. "You... are not an adventurer. You are a guardian. No concoction- not here, not on the surface- can do more than ease my pain and postpone the inevitable. You are to remain at my side until my time is over, and then you will wait in this chamber for my human hero to arrive. Do you understand?"

She spoke to him like he was a child, so full of sickening pity. The feeling of dread began to creep over him again. He slunk back to the ground, twisting his fingers together in front of him.

"Of course," he said, drawing out the sharp "s" at the end. "How foolish of me to think that your divine power could assist me in saving your life."

"I am sorry," Hylia faltered. She reached toward him, but he flickered away, reappearing far out of reach. Her hand dropped, limp, back into her lap. She bowed her head. "Ghirahim, there is a greater good which we must consider. You did not see the war, so you cannot know what terror it brought my people."

"And I never will, it seems," Ghirahim retorted. He saw his mistress clutch at her chest and grimace, and for a moment, he almost yielded. Ears drooping, he crept forward to sit on his pedestal.

Sensing his hesitation, Hylia continued: "I wish I could promise you as much. If Demise breaks free, this hard-won peace may very well mean nothing. Then you will have the conflict you seem to covet." She paused, closing her eyes and drawing a breath that shuddered throughout the chamber. "Glorifying bloodshed is a human weakness. Remember that."

"I am not glorifying bloodshed." Ghirahim was bristling again, his conscience forgotten. The sensation began to drain away from his tightly entangled fingers. "It is freedom that you deny me. You expect me to rot in this statue, waiting for a hero that might never come so that they can defend a world that I have never seen." He flung himself onto his back like an impudent child. "I will obey, of course, he sneered. "I am forever Her Grace's loyal dog."

There was no answer to this, no further righteous anger or motherly condescension. Both parties sat wordless, listening to the ragged breathing of a dying goddess and a spirit with a shadow cast over his heart. At length, however, Hylia did dare to speak, and her voice was as low and as smooth as blood leaking from a wound.

"Do you hate me, Ghirahim?"

Ghirahim merely bit his tongue and rolled over. There was no answer to this either.